


The Red-Haired One

by SomeMagician



Category: Castlevania: Lords of Shadow, 悪魔城ドラキュラ | Castlevania Series
Genre: Biting, Dissociation, F/M, Vampires, bad memories, blood-drinking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-25
Updated: 2017-12-25
Packaged: 2019-02-18 09:21:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13097103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SomeMagician/pseuds/SomeMagician
Summary: The nights on earth are long, and sometimes, the Dragon still dreams even when he is awake.





	The Red-Haired One

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Orionali](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Orionali/gifts).



> I took this prompt on b/c I was disappointed that I did not get to write any LoS for this fic exchange. Writing sex is not my strong suite, and this is the second story I drafted for this prompt. I had to disqualify the first story b/c it just wasn't matching the request.
> 
> I based the redhead here on an original character who is a red-haired consort (and MC) for Dracul from Orionali's fanfic, _Rebirth_. I've left off her name in the text since I didn't have time to ask proper permissions.

The path of darkness did not lack for women—they sought him out as often as they ran from him, and this one, here with him now, had _danced_. Now, as then, a hundred years before, her hair leapt like flames, and her skin burned fire-white, and there were never lips so red as these, and where she kissed him, they were cold. He let her kiss him, again and again, and follow a line with her kisses and the wet darts of her tongue down to his neck where she parted her lips and bit him hard enough to make him shudder. He bucked up against her, his body hot with this good pain, and twisted his fingers in her hair hard—the red strands broke.

Which made her laugh lightly, like a kitten, and she leaned into him as he settled in the throne again. She grinned, her lips close to his ear, his blood on her breath, her mouth. “Did I hurt you, my prince?”

He gentled his hold in her hair, the red curls sliding through his fingers before he pulled her higher up on his lap, sliding skin on skin, between two bodies already used, and used again. After their second or third game of this, he’d stayed inside her, for the indulgence of her body still trembling around him with the after-shakes of her pleasure. Now he pulled her closer, trailed his mouth over the rise of one of her breasts into the valley between them, where he left deep marks on her of his own, trickling fine old blood down her belly. He stiffened with her sharp gasp and long, easing sigh, the smear of her blood on his lips, and her body holding fast to him.

The Throne Room kept no court but them, and they would play like this—for as long as they liked, they wished, really. What care had they for time anymore? A year might pass before he quit this woman, whose body clutched him well, made him sore. Why ever leave this flesh—that could yield, soft and red, and yet tear him into his own pieces? Already, the pulse between her legs was bringing him hard again. She stretched open with him, her muscles a seizing flutter around his cock. Her sensation rubbed him out—into blood and skin and teeth and gasping breath—harsh, harsher, ragged, splintering thought into senseless rhythm—rattling out a stray idea, a word—a year—

A year—a year—

'A year— _gone_?'

Someone had asked long ago—it wasn’t the first year, it was last, though they hadn’t known it, even as the kiss they parted with was salty. 'A year gone, my love. So soon?' Their room, their place, was bright, the tousled sheets of their bed colorless in the white spring morning. It rained so quietly on the roof of their house. Out of its pins, her dark hair ran forever—to her knees, but her voice ran garbled, as if over brook stones. 'I’ll wait the year, again,' she said at last, her shadow over him where he lay, her fingers learning a new scar he’d brought back. The healed wound still had no feeling anymore, a twist of numbness under his ribs. She sighed, her fingers letting him alone. 'I only wish—'

What had she only wished?

The blood in his mouth was sour; it clogged between his teeth, and the suddenness of the memory had made him soft, distracted, in the great gray room, with its great gray hangings, its dragon’s chair—which loomed above them, horned and high,  set with the staring head of the lizard, the frozen faces of red-eyed ghosts in its arms, and them—him, and this woman, who he watched hang over him like she were not his, like he were not here, deep in her.

The sweet pull of her body around his, the beat of her hips, white and gray as tomb marble, at him made that memory blurry and dark and pulled him to reality again, because oh God, oh heartless God, this was reality.

'I only wish—'

He came, unexpectedly, and it was bitter. His eyes rolled, his body an empty animal.

The lips in his mind mouthed their last words, the lips pink with life and sun, rolled together like a rosebud, before she winked away.

'I only wish, now and then,' she said, 'that we had a hundred years.'


End file.
